


It starts with an ashtray

by OldEnoughToKnowBetter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Light BDSM, M/M, Smoking, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 02:21:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldEnoughToKnowBetter/pseuds/OldEnoughToKnowBetter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You just know Dean would enjoy a smug post-sex cigarette.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It starts with an ashtray

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this piece of filthy smoking porn because I saw a hot guy on a crowded street smoking a cigarette, and you just don't see that in Northern California. And I've read a couple of really good Weecest smoking stories. It's unbeta'd, because it's only the second piece of slash I've ever published and I don't even know how to ask for beta'ing. And it is the first fictional sex scene I've ever written, so I hope it's actually sexy.

It starts with an ashtray. Sam can’t remember the last time he saw an ashtray in a motel room; even when they wind up with a smoking room, ashtrays must have to be specially requested or something, like decent people shouldn’t have to look at them.

He notices the ashtray by the gear bed, not-quite clean glass with brownish smears, and wonders what state they’re stopped for the night in. Then he’s asleep, the long line of their connecting bodies dosing him with oxytocin.

Two days later, some unknown number of states away, he hipchecks Dean while he’s gassing the Impala. And there’s something in Dean’s pocket, on his un-wallet side, the pocket that Sam hooks a thumb in sometimes these days if they’re east of Texas and north of the Mason-Dixon line. Sam goes for the pocket with one Reed Richards arm and maps the shape of the mystery object before Dean can stop him.

“Marlboros or Camels?” he demands. “What? What are you talking about, Sam?” Dean says, shifty-eyed but determined to at least try ducking the issue.

“There’s only two kinds of cigarettes real men smoke, Dean. Which ones did you get?” “Marlboros, duh”, says Dean, as if this is a consumer choice he’s made in this century. But Sam knows he hasn’t. He remembers the beating fifteen-year-old Dean took when John found the pack in Dean’s Army jacket. He remembers the week before John found them, Dean’s furtiveness, the smell in Dean’s hair, the way Dean would disappear and come back exactly six minutes later, just a little calmer.

“But Camels have the occult stuff and the naked lady on the pack”, Sam says. “All the more reason. We’re good for occult, in case you missed that. Hey, why aren’t you freaking out? Why aren’t you bitching about how I won’t enjoy the light at the end of the tunnel with lung cancer?”

“I smoked for two years at Stanford. I only stopped because Jess went on cooter strike. I fucking loved smoking.” “Why, you cancer-stick-sucking rascal!”, Dean says, smiling. Sam goes on, “Besides, you haven’t even smoked one yet. I’d have smelled it on you. Time enough to freak out if you develop a habit. And we can always wean you off on e-cigs.” “Um, Sam, pretty sure e-cigs are not in the Real Men formulary. But yeah. I thought, Dad’s been gone a long time, just once I’d like to…well.” “What, Dean?” Although Sam knows. He knows exactly what Dean wants.

They get a smoking room, and request an ashtray from the desk clerk, who looks at them like they’re perverts. Which is not exactly novel, after years of asking clerks for things like janitorial chemicals to make demon IEDs. And, well, after eight years of leaving their room looking like weird peripatetic sex wolves were there, and didn’t make it to the bed.

Dean lays out the paraphernalia carefully on the bedside table, the unopened red-and-white box, the lighter, the ashtray, and — gum? “I want to do it, but I don’t want to kiss you all gross after”, he explains. They go through the usual night-time routines, salt lines, cleaning guns, filling holy water flasks, replacing buttons torn off in a skirmish. There’s an undertone of giddiness, though. Sam can’t stop thinking about how Dean’s lips will look around the cigarette. “Coming with?” Dean asks as he heads for the shower. “Nah, gonna savor the buildup.” “I asked if you wanted a shower, I didn’t say I’d get you off there.” “Still.”

When Dean comes out he’s freshly-shaved, the line of his jaw shining. Sam takes over the bathroom, does the Fleet Naturals, hits the shower and shaves too, brushes his teeth. Just bending over the sink to spit makes his balls twitch. Dean is lying on their bed in just a towel, with a plastic tumbler of whisky. He looks, as usual, like a pornstar. Sam loves this part of their life, the anonymous rooms and ghastly bedcoverings are a perfect contrast to the profoundly known specificity of Dean’s beauty. Dean has turned off the overhead, and the light from the bedside lamp cuddles up to his cheekbones, limns his strong chin, and gives up and swoons over his mouth.

Sam decides two can play at that game, and leans against the doorframe, letting the yellow light play over his torso. Dean reaches out and yanks his towel off. “Enough voguing. Bring the cock.” As Sam climbs onto the bed stark naked, cool draft from the wall a/c drying the water on his skin, Dean puts his cup on the table and shinnies up the bed. “We got a padded headboard!” he says. He leans his head back against the headboard and Sam kneels over Dean’s chest, gets his hips up in Dean’s face. His cock, which needless to say is good to go, slaps at Dean’s face in a way that would be demanding in a smaller penis and in Sam’s is outright threatening. Dean is trapped now, pinned down under Sam’s body and backed up against the headboard.

Sam grabs his cock and rubs the moist head over the sensitive, just-shaven skin of Dean’s cheeks. Then he takes his other hand and forces his fingers through Dean’s parted lips, hauls Dean’s mouth wide open, rubs his fingers on Dean’s tongue til Dean gags. Dean looks up at him with wet eyes, and Sam says, “Oh, okay, fine, you can suck my cock.” He pushes it in gently, not because he’s nice or anything but because it’s hard not to get too much teeth at this angle. Shoving his cock into Dean’s mouth seems to go on and on, like he’s watching it disappear between those luscious lips forever. Dean is helpless, a vessel, his fuck-hole, and yet he’s cradling Dean between his knees, feeling Dean’s chest expand against his thighs, and when Dean’s eyes close in bliss Sam is dizzy with tenderness. He fucks Dean’s mouth for three hard thrusts, then pulls his cock out and lets Dean gasp for air. “Good?” “So good. More.”

Sam slides his cock back into Dean’s mouth, getting the sticky drag of thick back-of-the-throat spit now. He goes to work, just far enough in to give Dean painful blow-job swallows tomorrow, then way out over the roughness of Dean’s tongue. He mixes it up, too, letting Dean have the soft head batting at his ridiculous lips, then plastering the root and balls over Dean’s mouth and nose, pubic hair still damp from the shower. He watches Dean inhale his smell. His hands grip the padded headboard; he fucking owns his boy when they’re like this.

Sam decides it’s time to visit his brother’s second-best asset. Dean is still wearing a thin towel around his hips, and Sam yanks it off and hauls Dean down the bed by the hips so he doesn’t get a crick in his neck. Dean is still stuck on the face-fucking; he’s murmuring something like “oh baby, that was so good, yeah-“ — but Sam ignores him and gets Dean’s pelvis nicely squared away for some jacking. Sam grabs the lube from the bedside and fills his palm, then gently strokes Dean’s cock with his dry hand while he waits for the lube to warm up. Dean is coming up from sub-space, starting to move against Sam’s hand, rotate his slim hips. Sam leans over and bites first one hipbone, then the other. Makes his tongue rigid and pushes it into the declivities of Dean’s hips. Closes his lips and gently kisses Dean’s cock just below the head. Dean’s still passive, moaning and sighing and rocking. Sam takes his slippery hand and runs one warm, wet finger from the top of Dean’s cock to the bottom. Dean’s cock is beautiful, pale and thick and smooth, buttery-soft. “I love you”, Sam says randomly. Dean doesn’t answer, because Sam grabs his whole cock with his ginormous lubricated paw and jerks mercilessly. Dean jumps like he’s been hit with a taser (literally, just like that time he was hit with a taser, Sam thinks) and curses like a sailor.

Dean grabs Sam’s shoulders and rolls them smoothly (thank God they got two Kings!) He is fully switched over now, and done waiting. “’M gonna fuck you so hard”, he says, and Sam’s legs spread open reflexively. Dean grabs the lube, does his fingers, and checks Sam’s ass without politeness. “Ready?” He takes Sam’s “ungh” as consent, and sets the head of his cock to Sam’s ass.

But then, because Dean isn’t really a nice person, or at least not consistently, he teases Sam, pushing at the slippery, twitchy rim then cruelly taking his cock away. Dean casually paws Sam’s balls, pretends to admire his manscaping, hums a little. “Enter Sandman”, Sam thinks. “Please, fucking, fuck, will you fuck me, I need you,” etc; Sam mumbles all the things a person who’s being teased when they need serious deep dicking will mumble. Then he remembers something that worked the last time someone was hoarding cock instead of sharing properly. “Fuck me and I’ll wear that Supertramp t-shirt all day tomorrow.”

Dean grunts and gives it up, pushing in fast and hard. Sam just comes right away. He can’t help it; it’s too much and too good. He keeps his eyes open as he comes, breathing hard through his open mouth, his legs shaking, his ass squeezing Dean. It’s a long, hard orgasm, the kind that involves parts of your body you don’t usually know you have. It’s like being next to the speakers at a club, like getting your feet rubbed when they’re sore, like when sugar shocks your teeth. It’s so good that it’s almost better when it’s over. Then he sinks back into the bed, like gravity has mysteriously doubled and also Dean’s heavy body is hammering him into the mattress. “Couldn’t wait, huh Sammy”, Dean is muttering, “yeah, you get so hot for me, fuckin come all over my cock”, and Sam’s come is sliding off his belly onto the long-suffering coverlet. Dean is absolutely pounding him now, and Sam leans up into the cage of Dean’s arms and bites Dean’s muscular shoulder. Dean thrusts in hard, but then he freezes, and his eyes, his sparkling green eyes, find Sam’s. “Hi, baby”, he says. He kisses Sam’s mouth gently for a second, and then all bets are off as he drives his tongue between Sam’s teeth and slams into Sam’s hips. He pulls away to bury his face in Sam’s neck, and shudders as he comes. “Love you, love you”, he whispers. “Oh, God, fuck, baby, you’re so sweet”.

And then his hot, heavy, sweat-slick body drops down onto Sam’s, crushing Sam in the most delicious and not-yet annoying way. After a few minutes of trembling afterglow, Sam pokes Dean in the ribs, their signal for “now you’re squashing me, ya ape”. Dean pulls out gently, wipes them down with a t-shirt (Sam’s), and then he says, his eyes soft with excitement, “Can I do it now?” “You bet”, Sam says, and reaches over and grabs the pack of cigarettes and the lighter, hands them to Dean. Dean fumbles with the cellophane, and Sam snatches the box back. “You’re supposed to pack them first.” “I knew that”. Sam smacks the package against the heel of his giant hand, compacting the tobacco, then opens the box and turns the “D” cigarette down for luck. Although to get more lucky with Dean, they’d probably have to grow new orifices.

He pulls out a cigarette and hands it to Dean. Both their fingers are trembling with post-fuck shakes. Dean puts the cigarette in his mouth and it’s even better than Sam imagined; his plush lips purse around it and pucker as he inhales to get it lit. Dean draws the smoke in, doesn’t even cough on the drag, holds it and lets smoke filter out his nostrils. Sam smells the acrid smell of burning tobacco and the different, swampy smell of smoke that’s been through lungs. He looks at the cigarette between Dean’s fingers, the tip where the tan paper is darker from Dean’s saliva. Dean is having his first-ever post-coital cigarette, and it’s ridiculously hot.


End file.
